


over the bent world broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings

by MissFlitworth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Missing Scene, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:06:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22870705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFlitworth/pseuds/MissFlitworth
Summary: after the flood and after the crucifixion, a curious Crowley watches Aziraphale
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 19





	over the bent world broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings

It starts to rain, and the people gathered to laugh at Noah and watch the spectacle slowly drift away. Crawley stays where he is, waiting to see what Aziraphale does. He figures his best bet is to stick by the angel, if there’s going to be a catastrophe. And besides, last time they stood together in the rain Crawley got a nice shelter under Aziraphale’s wing. It had been miraculously warm and dry. This time Aziraphale seems to quickly forget about the rain. He just… stands there, drenched, as it rains and rains and  _ rains.  _

“Um,” Crawley says. 

“I am bearing witness,” Aziraphale says, each word careful.

“Right,” Crawley says. “Bit wet. Maybe we could do that from the boat?”

“Ark. It is an ark,” Aziraphale says, making no move toward it. 

“Right,” Crawley says again. 

He squints up at the sky, takes a careful look around, and unfurls his wings. He tentatively holds one over Aziraphale’s head and gets a soft, choked laugh, a hand on his arm. A trembling hand. They stand for a while longer, Crawley offering shelter, then Aziraphale steps out away from him. 

“Can you get away?” Aziraphale asks, not looking back. 

“Yeah,” Crawley says. “Thought it might be safer here. Heavenly presence, all that.”

“No,” Aziraphale says. “Not this time.”

Crawley shrugs, and shifts far away from the floods. He takes a detour, figuring saving a few of these terrible sinners can only count as doing bad. He waits for a week, a city somewhere warm, expecting Aziraphale to show up. He doesn’t. Crawley goes to see if there are any survivors, and rescues a few, hoping to draw Aziraphale out. Still, nothing. He goes back again a week later, finds a family living high, high up, rescues them too. Another week and everything’s gone, another week after that and there aren’t even any signs. Crawley searches but finds nothing, even when he flies over everything he finds only the boat. He has a half-hearted go at tempting Ham and Shem, then takes to the sky again. 

He finds Aziraphale only when night falls, following an odd sort of hunch that the closer he gets the easier he recognises as a dim kind of feeling, a sense memory, something… light, deep in what is now an ocean. He skims the surface and folds his wings, lets himself sink down and down, darker and darker. There are fish, and an octopus, and he wonders if God was wanting to kill every living creature she surely forgot that some of them swim. Some of her creatures, Crawley thinks as he finds the light, can survive under water. Aziraphale’s there, wings stretched miles across, eyes closed as if he’s asleep. And in the circle of his protection, people. 

_ Someone is sure to notice  _ _ this _ _ ,  _ Crawley thinks, staring through the water at the scene. Aziraphale’s eyes open and they’re filmed over, bright tears blurring into the salt water. Aziraphale meets Crawley’s gaze and Crawley hears him, loud and clear as if Aziraphale speaks the words. 

_ I couldn’t _ . 

* * *

It’s past the mid-point of night, and all the heat’s gone out of the sand, the sky is dark, no one is near. The only sound is wind, and laboured breathing. Cries of pain. One man weeps. Crowley watches, keeping distant from the guards who stand silent, far from the men hung on the crosses, out of ear-shot away from the smell. Aziraphale’s still stood, head bowed. Keeping company, or praying, or, perhaps, smirking, as Crowley suggested earlier. Somehow Crowley doubts that, Aziraphale doesn’t usually seem the type to be cruel, and _I am not consulted on policy decisions_ goes round and round his head. Not the words, the tone. No, not here to smirk. As Craowley watches, a wretched sound drags out of one of the men hung, a rattling breath. Crowley considers doing something. He’s being watched though and kindness isn’t generally acceptable to his bosses. 

The rattling goes on and then the sand and sky and everything around seems to take a deep breath, the moment holds still and silent, and then a rush, a gentle breeze, and quiet. Even Crowley feels the deep, warm peace, emanating from Aziraphale like a beacon. The men breathe easily and the rattle is drawn out, easing, slowing, and then stops. The moment holds. And then again, a deep breath, a gentle breeze, and peace. Crowley settles himself more comfortably. All night, until the sun starts to come up bringing a returning heat and the guards stir, the world breathes with Aziraphale. 

Crowley leaves, he has some work to do. He hadn’t been involved in the Judas business, he's not sure anyone was (Aziraphale would call it ineffable. Far too trusting, that angel. Believes in everything). There are other things in motion here though, smaller patches of trouble to tend to. The small warmth that Aziraphale likes his new name is fast quenched, but when he tempts a young woman, he tempts her into a library, with knowledge. He finds, as the day comes to a close, that he’s drawn back. It’s still light and people have gathered, Aziraphale’s still there, right at the back, clothes dusty, dimmer. 

Crowley takes up his position, hidden, and watches. The crowd thins, disperses, the guards settle away from their spectacle, and Aziraphale stands below Jesus’s cross. He reaches out and presses his hand to the wood, and Crowley can see the relief on Jesus’s face as the pain washes away. Aziraphale steps back, however, looking around guiltily. Crowley goes to see what the trouble is. Aziraphale starts when Crowley gets close, and Crowley would swear there’s a flash of fear in his eyes. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, recognising Crowley, fear draining away. Odd, that. “Back again?”

“Mm. What stopped you? Just then,” Crowley asks, looking up at Jesus, face once more twisted in pain. 

“I’m not to offer him succour,” Aziraphale says, prim and proper. “It, I got... a memo.”

“Ah,” Crowley says. 

“They say, if he wants to suffer for them, to earn forgiveness for them, he has to… do this,” Aziraphale says. He takes a deep breath. “I can’t grant  _ him  _ respite from the pain, but they never said anything about the others.”

There’s only one other man, now, suffering this punishment. Aziraphale squares his shoulders and Crowley hadn’t really thought about the kind of power Aziraphale might have, mostly so far Crowley’s just seen him perform minor miracles, bear witness. Never seen him do much thwarting. Aziraphale raises a hand a little, fingers threading the air like he’s feeling over it, finding something more than air, drawing something from there. And then the other man sighs, head tipping back, and Crowley can see he’s no longer in pain. Aziraphale takes a shuddering breath, grief, Crowley recognises, and then the other man is breathing deeply, easily, asleep. 

“He’s dying,” Aziraphale whispers. 

“So are they all,” Crowley observes. Aziraphale nods, and folds his fingers one by one against his palm, pulling his gently closed fist to his chest, bringing the man’s life to a peaceful close. 

Crowley stands at Aziraphale’s side for this night. He doesn’t see Aziraphale do anything else, but once the darkness is complete, he starts breathing deeper, and once again the world breathes with him, and there’s a stillness, a deep peacefulness, and Jesus stares down at them. 

“I agree with him,” Aziraphale whispers, as the sun comes up. “Not.. they know what they are doing, they know that this is cruel and- but forgiveness…”

He trails off again, and Crowley holds his breath, waiting. But he isn’t going to be granted the angel’s thoughts on forgiveness today; the guards are coming for an inspection. They both leave in a bit of a hurry, and Crowley leaves the city that day, business taking him elsewhere. It’s a long time before he forgets Aziraphale’s gentle way of bending the world around himself, though. Thousands of years later, looking out of the upstairs nursery at the cultural attaché’s Regents Park residence, it comes back to him. Seeing the gardener out there, sitting comfortably under a tree, reading in the shade, while the garden blooms around him, Crowley feels again a sense of peace. 


End file.
